I do not, I do not, I do not. I donít belong in a place
like this. I am not a country girl. Iím really not a city girl, either. Iím
just a Perez from St. Bernard, just like the hundreds of other Perez clan
members. I do not belong in this place.

But this is the place Iím in, and Iím grateful, to an
extent. Iím so grateful that these people are letting us stay in their yard,
offering us a spare trailer and a place for our camper. I am grateful for their
hospitality and kindness, but that doesnít change the fact that this is a
place in which I was not made to be.

Thereís no water here, and it makes me want to cry so
much. I look outside the window of the trailer, and thereís nothing but grass,
trees, and the downward slope of the hill. There are two houses on this giant
lot, as well as their trailer (which they lent to us) and our camper. We had
dinner in the house farthest from the camper. The son of the lady offering us
part of her home was in town from
Houston, and he fixed an amazing spaghetti dinner.

We had to walk there in the dark. There are no lights at
night in this place. No stars were out tonight, either. It was just dark. No
lights over the river. No orange haze coming over the levee, the lights of ships
in the
Mississippi River
just across the street. Nothing -- just darkness and the cry of a million
crickets.

I want to go home.

This morning, I finally overslept. Overslept? No, I take it
back. I finally honestly slept. Good sleep, for the first time in over a week.
It felt good. The first thing I knew was that mom was shaking me. The man
bringing the television was here.

I felt absolutely horrible that I was not dressed to greet
him. Mr. Long came into our hotel room, 129, and put the television there on the
bed. He put a remote next to it. I wanted to cry. Why is everyone being so nice?
I went over and hugged him, telling him thank you so much. Now, my parents can
have the news in the camper, now they can know whatís going on when they move.
I can never thank Jo Lynn and the Longs enough. We put the television in the
camper today. It was absolutely perfect!

I can never thank everyone enough for all that they are
doing for me and my family. Iíve been making a list of those that I need to
thank. As soon as I get settled in, Iím writing hundreds of thank you notes to
everyone that has helped me. Iíll write them, even though everyone deserves so
much more.

We drove to Provencal today, a few miles outside of Natchitoches,
Louisiana. Itís so rural. I knew from the second that I stepped out of the car that I
did not belong in this place. I smiled and hugged everyone, but looking around,
I knew. This place wasnít made for me, and I was not made for it.

I slept most of the day, which I felt so guilty about. My
mom and dad set up the trailer, making it home. I wasnít feeling well ó my
throat has been hurting the last few days. I think Iím starting to get sick,
and I dozed off whenI sat down in a
giant chair. I was just that tired.

I woke up with mosquito bites all down my leg -- the first
thing like home in this place. So far, itís the only.

I miss home, and itís really starting to show. I miss
coming home and having to climb over my fence, school skirt swaying, because I
left the gate clicker inside the house. I miss my door, wooden engravings deep
and old, giant curly flowers in the wood. I miss the thick brown carpet. I miss
my bed. I miss my desk. I still remember the scent it had when I opened the
cabinet door, the warm smell of my computerís tower mixing with the comforting
smell of wood. I miss so many things about my home. We donít even know how
long itíll be before theyíll let us back into the parish, to save what we
can and realize all that we lost.

Thereís a dead wasp on the carpet here, just a foot away.
Iím scared of bees.

Can I go home now?I
really want to.

Being a gypsy is fun for a time, but itís hard. Thereís
no one to talk to about this. Everyone is depending on me, expecting me to be
strong, but really, I need someone now.

A part of me misses
Shelby still, but so much has happened. Heís something in the
Old World
now, something that was washed away in the hurricane, something that cannot be
salvaged, like paper, wet and faded, after soaking in 13 feet of water for five
days.

What day is it? Itís really just a blur.

I miss home, you know. I miss my house, my home, my life
there. Hide it inside. Be strong for everyone else. Thatís what everyone
needs now. They need someone to depend on. I wonít let them down. No tears.
Want to cry. Canít cry. Wonít cry.
Keep on going. Day to day. Move in tomorrow. So very scared. Keep inside. Mom
needs to think Iím okay. Otherwise, sheíll cry. Be strong. Keep it going.
Roll with the punches. Punch, punch. Roll with it, baby. Ride the tiger.

Spaghetti dinner.I
made my way there in the dark, dark, dark. The hisses of crickets were trumpets
bringing me home. But this isnít home. I walked in. You have to turn the
handle to close the door behind you. You canít just let it swing closed. That
was annoying. So many people were there. One man was tall and round and wearing
a white cowboy hat. I thought of my shrimp boots at home. I miss home.

The chef was named Jeff, the man from Houston. His wife was very nice, and he was very fat. He was funny, though, and he made
my plate, even though I said I would do it myself. His wife handed me the gallon
of milk after she asked what I would like to drink. I poured the milk into a
red, plastic cup. Our glasses at home were nice.

Jeff fixed me a large plate, and I stood at the counter and
started eating. Mom and Dad came a minute later. They had taken a bit longer
than I did because Mom had been crying again. Dad was hugging her when I walked
into the camper to ask if they were ready. She walked over and gave me a tight
hug, gripping my back and pulling me close, as if her life depending on holding
me in that hug.

ďYou donít have to go to that school! Donít go if you
are going to be miserable! I want to go home, Sam. I want you to go to Hannan
and have your senior ring and graduate with your friends. I want you to be
happy!Ē

She cried, and I said it was okay. Be strong. No tears.
Keep them inside. Roll with the punches. Punch, punch. Ow.

So they were late to the dinner. I sat on a stool at the
wooden table in their dining room. Jeff and his wife, Kristy and Jean, and Mom
sat with me. Momís eyes werenít red or puffy. I wondered why, because she
had been crying so hard just a few minutes before.

I ate only half of the plate.I havenít been eating much this summer, and now, Iíve only eaten
those cereal packs I stole every morning in the free breakfast. Ah, the good
life.

The spaghetti was amazing. Mom loved it, too. She said Jeff
should stay and not go back to
Houston. Jeff laughed. He took a bite of his own spaghetti. It was a big spoon, but I
thought he was going to eat it, too. Jeff is nice though, so I didnít smile
when I thought of him eating the spoon.

I left the dinner after I finished my milk, said I was
going to take my shower early and not get in the way tonight. I havenít taken
my shower yet. I need to. I donít want to get in the way.

Iím going take my shower now, because thatís what I
need to do. Iíll be moving into the dorm tomorrow, sharing a bathroom with
five other girls, six of us all together. Iím so nervous about starting
school. I wish someone were here for me to talk to.

I really need someone here. I donít want to be a rock. I
donít want to be an island. I was both at a time, but then I worked hard and
made a happy life. Where did it go?